Lucretius on Unconscious Motivation

In this version, I quote Lucretius in my
own translation, which is free, not literal. I have also deleted some
footnotes and incorporated others into the main text. For the original
language and full documentation, refer to the printed version in
Phoenix, vol. 37 (1983) 3. This website version is intended only to
assist readers who do not read Latin; the paper has not been updated.

Many
readers of Lucretius have noticed and admired an uncommon psychological
acumen. His observations on the personal character of dreams, the
rationalizations of lovers, and especially the fear of death are
suggestive of an almost psychoanalytic sensitivity. However, this is
either noticed only casually or else ascribed to his poetic insight.
Until recently, the only aspect of this psychological acumen to attract
systematic study was his understanding of anxiety, which appeared to be
so intimate that it was viewed as symptomatic of his own emotional
illness.

Recently,
scholars have become more aware of the philosophical impor­tance of the
irrational in Epicurean theory. David Konstan (Some Aspects of Epicurean Psychology
Leiden 1973, especially 10 ff.) has demon­strated that Lucretius views
the fear of death and other irrational emotions as elements of a
pervasive general anxiety in the lives of the unenlightened. This
prevalence of anxiety and irrationality in the life of the common man
certainly explains some of the analogies between Lucretius and
psychoana­lysis. However, I believe that the explanation can be carried
further.

The
reason why psychoanalysis can trace so much anxiety to irrational
factors is that it assumes unconscious motivation, i.e., that our
behaviour and beliefs are partially determined by emotional factors of
which we are not aware, and which we do not fully understand. The
conception of unconscious motivation is the very foundation of
psychoanalysis, and its role as a basic psychological principle is
characteristic of Freudian and modern theory. Yet I believe that
Lucretius sometimes makes a similar assumption, and that it is largely
this technique that makes his psychologi­cal insight seem peculiarly
modern. Of course, we must understand "unconscious" in a loose sense
characterizing any mental process of which a person is not aware, and
not in the sense of the "unconscious proper" defined by psychoanalysts
as an entire separate region of the psyche not accessible to conscious
scrutiny. Yet Lucretius does employ a notion that people do not
understand—and can deceive themselves about—their own motivations. In
part, he expresses this notion through poetic or descriptive devices.
However, he also makes some surprisingly explicit assertions of
unconscious motivation.

In
the preface to Book 3, Lucretius describes the fear of death (and of
punishment in Hell) as a pervasive anxiety in the lives of his
contem­poraries. To reinforce this picture, he argues that other
irrational emotions, particularly greed and ambition, are in fact caused
largely by the fear of death. Critics charge that Lucretius is
exaggerating the importance of the fear of death in his society, and
they are confused by what Bailey aptly describes as "the apparently
remote connexion with that fear" (996) of ambition and greed. Cicero
(Tusc. Disp. 1 21 48) already raised the first of these objections, and
some scholars believe that Lucretius' insistence on ascribing widespread
anxiety to such fears merely reflected his own emo­tional disturbance.
Sellar (The Roman Poets of the Republic, Oxford 1881, 371)
thought Lucretius' intelligence had failed him when he attempted to
reduce ambition and greed to the fear of death. Jacques Perret (“L’amour de l’argent, l’ambition, et la crainte de la morte” in Melanges Ernout, Paris
1940, 277-284) noticed the importance of lines 65-67 (discussed below),
but he attempted to explain the passage by the social realities of
Lucretius' time. Although he admires Lucretius' psychological acumen, he
would still have us believe that the poor in Rome were always on the
verge of starvation, and the wealthy preoccupied with a desire to avoid
the same plight. This approach has been extended recently by R. C. Monti
(Latomus 40 1981 48-66) who argues that Lucretius is deliberately
reflecting the conditions of the civil wars. This is undoubtedly true,
and the social background of the civil wars is very relevant for
understanding the thrust of the passage, yet, surely, it is still
paradoxical to depict precisely the most competitive elements of any
society as extensively preoccupied with death. (Ironically, Bailey [p.
1170], attempting to explain another of Lucretius' psychological
portraits [the compulsive traveler discussed below] in the same way,
assures us that "boredom" was common among these same social strata.)
The psychology of the argument, as well as its sociology, must be
understood.

The
present paper cannot resolve the exact role of the fear of death in
Lucretius' system. For our purpose, it will be sufficient to accept
Konstan's balanced (initial) formulation that "the cause of irrational
desires is a complex psychic process in which the fear of death is a
component, albeit the most significant one " (Konstan, 26-27). What I
wish to do is to examine more closely one aspect of that "complex
psychic process". For I believe that when Lucretius describes the fear
of death as pervasive, he views it as an unspecified component of a
general state of anxiety, and when he presents it as the cause of greed
and ambition, it is, at least in part, as an unconscious motivation. If
this is true, then both the original criticisms, and many of the
counterarguments as well, have missed the mark because they do not
understand the psychological sophistication of the passage. Lucretius is
not asserting that ambitious men—even ambitious Republican nobles—are
con­stantly preoccupied with Hell and that this is the conscious motive
for their other passions, but that this fear contributes to a general
state of anxiety and unconsciously engenders other passions.

Konstan
has already argued well that Lucretius portrays the fear of death as a
generalized, unspecific anxiety. He cites a fragment in which the
Epicurean Diogenes of Oenanda differentiates an "explained" or specific
fear of death (e.g., when a person is threatened by a fire) from an
"unexplained" fear. Konstan appropriately cites Lucretius' analogy of
"shadows of the mind" (3.87-90) as a description of the latter:

“Just
as children shudder in the dark afraid of everything, we adults
sometimes fear in broad daylight things that are no more frightening
than what the children imagine and dread in the shadows.”

Yet this general anxiety, as depicted by Lucretius, is none other than the state of tarakhos
or psychic turbulence in which Epicurus thought all unenlightened men
exist, and which it was his purpose to dispel. Thus, Lucretius says that
this fear "leaves no pleasure in life unadulterated" (39-40), which is
almost a trademark of tarakhos. All of the passages in which we
shall find Lucretius implying unconscious motivations concern this
psychic state. Accordingly, it is the point of the preface to Book 3
that only a thorough understanding of the Epicurean theory of the soul
can dispel the fear of death (91-93):

“This
mental fear and darkness must be expelled not by the sun and the light
of day, but by the contemplation and understanding or nature.”

To
emphasize this point, Lucretius refers in 41-58 to persons who believe
that they can do without this understanding. These people (perhaps
politically active Roman nobles) claim that they fear death and Hell
less than disgrace; yet they still disgrace themselves, and afterwards,
they are afraid of punishment in Hades. In a crisis, Lucretius infers,
"the mask is torn off, and the truth remains".

These
words are famous as an example of Lucretius' psychological insight, but
what precisely constitutes that insight? The passage is
psycho­logically interesting in other respects, such as the role of
guilt, but the important feature is that these men are not consistent
with their stated beliefs. This must mean either that they are only
hypocrites—i.e., that they are deliberately insincere when stating their
beliefs—or that they do not know their own fears. If the former meaning
is intended, Lucretius' psychology is actually rather shallow.

Now,
Lucretius does indulge his characteristic impatience with oppo­nents by
charging them with some hypocrisy (46-47), but his main point is that
they need an Epicurean understanding to secure their beliefs. This is a
standard doctrine which we shall see applied also to others—including
Lucretius himself (below)—who are obviously sincere. Moreover, he does
not claim, for example, that these boasters are superstitious at the
time when they state their beliefs, but only later, after they are
shaken by a crisis. The implication is indeed that they are deceptive,
but that they have deceived themselves as well. Their initial statements
were not completely insincere, but without a sound philosophical basis,
they remained insecure.

Having
thus established that the fear of death may still lurk in men's hearts
even when they do not know it, Lucretius proceeds to explain why they
turn to crime even though they fear disgrace. Thus, when he sets out to
explain how greed and ambition arise from the fear of death in 59 ff.,
he has already introduced the theme that those who harbour this fear
exhibit general anxiety, and that in their emotional turmoil, they do
not always know their own fear.

The
critical verses explaining the motivation for ambition and greed are 65
ff. and 75-77. Lines 65 ff. trace ambition and greed to a desire for
security:

"For
bitter poverty is perceived as disgraceful and contemptible, as it
were, placed outside of the happy, secure condition of life, lingering,
at the very door of death. Driven by this unreal fear and wanting to
flee as far from death’s door as they can, they ruin society in bloody
strife and greedily amass wealth."

These
verses resemble 5.1120—1122, which state the conscious motive for the
origin of these passions in the history of civilization:

"They wanted status and power to secure their good fortune and enable them to live in peace and luxury."

Line
67, however, links this desire for security with the fear of imminent
death. Bailey notes that the connection is "remote"; yet because of the
parallel passage in Book 5, he would still explain it by comparison with
Epicurus' remark (Κ.D. 7) that "some men wish to become famous and
conspicuous, thinking that they would thus win for themselves safety
from other men" (i.e., from death by killing). Such reasoning could
indeed lead men to seek fame deliberately in order to avoid death, and
Lucretius certainly is alluding to this doctrine in Book 5. But in
3.65-67 there is no reference to other men. Instead, the lack of fame is vaguely, but directly, linked to death itself.

A Desmouliez
(“Cupidite, ambition et crainte de la morte chez Lucrece”, Latomus 17
1958 317-323) praises Lucretius' insight in 67 as "psychoanalytique
presque" (321), yet he considers it as an intrusion of Epicurean
doctrine, which Lucretius has cleverly "welded" to 65-66 but which does
not reflect the motivations of the avaricious men But why should Lucretius "weld" his doctrine to their motive? Poverty, he says, "seems as if tο linger at death's very door" (videtur quasi iam leti portas cunctarier ante); if we read these words as an explanation of their motivation—which is
how Lucretius offers them—they imply that the men themselves only
vaguely understand the connection; to use a modern idiom, they "somehow
associate" poverty with a threat to life.

These verses do not express an articulate judgment, but an indistinct
imagining. Moreover, as shown by such words as contemptus, iam (67) formidine (64), and terrore, this imagination is coupled with a strong emotional reaction. The emotionality is underscored by the repetition of longe, which is more unnatural in Latin, and therefore more emphatic, than "far, far away" would be in English. Because
of this emotionality, which scholars have not adequately considered in
interpreting the passage, the images in these men's minds are vivid, but
the logical relations are obscured. P.H. Schrijvers (“Horror ac divina voluptas: Etudes sur la poetique et la poesie de Lucrece,
Amsterdam 1970, 288-290), in discussing these lines, cites evidence
that for Epicurus, fear involved largely the faculty of imagination, and
the power to recall from memory emotionally charged images. What he
does not notice is that when emotion and imagination interact in this
way with­out reflective judgment, the ambitious men are not aware of the
implicit logic embodied by their state of mind. Thus, the image of
lingering at the door conveys a horror of imminent death, but no
conscious or articulate assertion of how poverty relates to death.

The complaint of the ambitious malcontents in 75-77 also is emotional and imaginative:

“They
waste with envy, as they gaze on another man who is famous and
powerful, always in the spotlight, while they, they complain, grapple in
darkess and filth.”

They
do not mention death. It is signaled to the reader by the imagery of
darkness which they evoke—as Lucretius links the image of shadows with
the fear of death—and by their despised status (cf. contemptus 65), which, according to Schrijvers (289—290), is also associated with the fear of death in Epicurean doctrine. But surely the malcontents, in their emotional state, are not aware of these relations. Their conscious motive is purely envy (invidia).
It is as if they moaned "He has all the glory, and I am left in the
shadows'" and Lucretius turned to the reader saying "Ah! You see?
'shadows'… what is really bothering them is the fear of death." Finally
(78 ff.) they are so preoccupied with ambition, or so distraught with
general anxiety that they commit suicide. By now, they have no conscious
fear of death. It is Lucretius who insists that this is their true
motivation.

Again
at the end of Book 3, Lucretius describes the state of mind of those
who suffer general anxiety arising from the fear of death. The harangue
delivered by the voice of Nature against this fear concludes with
another vivid picture of general anxiety, which Lucretius compares to
the behaviour of a compulsive traveler (1048-52, 1057-70):

“You
dream constantly, half-awake, your mind turbulent with empty fear; you
can not figure out what is wrong with you; your dulled wits are
oppressed by multiple anxieties and you stumble along with your mind
wandering in an undirected stream… We see this often: Nobody knows what
he wants, and they keep going to different places, as if to be relieved
of a burden. One keeps going out from his mansion because he is bored at
home, and returns abruptly, having felt no better outside. He rushes to
his country house driving his horses hard, as if he were going to put
out a fire; but he changes as soon as he reaches the door, and falls
fast asleep as a way to forget, or even turns right around and rushes
back home. Thus each man runs away from himself, but of course he can
not get away, the unwelcome pursuer clings tight, and he hates himself
because he does not know what ails him.”

This vignette is another popular example of Lucretius' psychological insight. The
description of anxiety as a burden of the mind and the entire
atmosphere of the passage are reminiscent of psychoanalysis. Once again,
the core of this resemblance is the attribution of unconscious
motivation. In this case, there is no question of a conscious fear of
death. The fear is “empty”(1049), i.e , non-specific and unnecessary. The drunkenness metaphor, the plurality of specific worries (multis undique curis),
and the metaphor of the "wandering mind" (1052) characterize general
anxiety. Whereas the preface pictured the imaginings behind irrational
behaviour, this passage stresses the irrationality of the behaviour
itself, but in both
cases, the subject cannot control his own feelings and is at the mercy of confused emotions.

The
unconscious character of the root of the anxiety is asserted in
statements which are as explicit as we can reasonably expect: "You can
not find out what's wrong with you" and "nobody knows what he wants".
Indeed, says Lucretius, if men knew the cause of their anxiety, they
would not exhibit such behaviour (1053 ff ).

The
statements in 1050 and 1058—and others, such as “In this way each man
runs away from himself”—so closely resemble certain popular
post-Freudian clichés that although they attract our attention, we do
not realize how paradoxical they must have been for ancient readers. We
need only ask ourselves, suspending our post-Freudian awareness, exactly
what it means to say that a person does not know what he wants—i.e ,
that he is unaware of his own mental processes.

Note
that these statements do not express the thoughts of the traveler (or
of the victim of Nature's harangue, who simply wanted one thing after
another and could never be satisfied 957). The traveler does not say to
himself, "I do not know what I want. I'll go to the country." Instead,
he may feel other motives (boredom), or even no apparent motive (“he
changes as soon as he reaches the door”). It is Lucretius who says that
he does not know what he wants—because, of course, Lucretius does know
his true motivation. It is—unbeknownst to the traveler—the fear of
death, and other irrational emotions.

Beliefs,
as well as behaviour, can be unconsciously motivated. Thus, Lucretius
derides the man who frets over what will happen to his corpse (3:
870-887):

“If
you should see a man resenting the fact that when he is dead, his body
will rot or be consumed by flames or wild animals, you can be sure that
this does not sound right, and some hidden goad underlies his heart,
even though he himself denies that he believes he will have any
sensation in death. He has not delivered on his assertions, he has not
completely extracted himself from life. Instead, anyone who says it will
happen to him that birds or animals will tear his body when dead, and
feels sorry for himself, unknowingly makes something of himself survive.
He does not adequately differentiate himself from the corpse lying
there; he stands next to it and thinks it is himself and tinges it with
his own sensation. Then he resents his mortality and fails to understand
that in real death, there will not be any living other self who could
grieve his departed self and stand over his corpse and feel the pain of
being torn or burned.”

This
man's stated belief (and it is obviously sincere) is that corpses do
not have sensation (874-875). However, like the exiles in the preface of
the book, he acts inconsistently with his belief, by imagining an
element of survival (he “makes something of himself survive” 878). This
bears a striking resemblance to what might be designated today as
"projection ". He uncon­sciously (“unknowingly”) imagines "another
self". Lucretius suggests an underlying motivation, which he describes
as a "hidden goad" (874). He does not identify the goad (it is
presumably the insecurity arising from ignorance of the true nature of
the soul) but “goad” implies a powerful emotion, and “hidden” emphasizes
the unconscious status of the goad.

B.P.
Wallach (“Lucretius and the Diatribe against the Fear of Death” Leiden
1976 30 ff.) has shown that this theme was a commonplace among
non-Epicurean as well as Epicurean sources, and that Lucretius' version
alludes to some of these. But if we compare Lucretius' treatment with
the other versions cited, the peculiarity of his psychological analysis
emerges all the more sharply. Thus, Wallach follows Bailey in citing
certain sources, such as Diogenes of Oenanda (fr. 14 Chilton), as
examples of imagining that "there will be a surviving ‘self’ which will
identify itself with the corpse" (Bailey 1139). But, in fact, neither
this source nor the others cited express the paradox of the "other self"
or any implication of unconscious motivation. Diogenes, for example,
simply says that he no longer shudders over the decay of the body now
that he understands
Epicurus' teaching, and Epicurus, in his Letter
to Menoeceus (125), writes with acute logical precision, but no
psychological perception,

“If
anyone says that he fears death not because he will be present and
grieving, but because he is grieving now because he will die, is silly;
because it is silly to worry beforehand about what does not hurt when it
does happen.” Lucretius, in con­trast, makes his suggestion of
unconscious motivation the point of the entire passage, and seems to
delight in multiplying paradoxical constructions with se and ipse
(“he himself… sees himself” and the like) which serve to drive home his
argument that the man does not realize what "he himself" is imagining.

This
comparison appears to indicate that the postulation of unconscious
motivation was a Lucretian innovation in Epicurean theory. Indeed, the
same conclusion is implied as well by our comparison above of Lucretius'
analysis of ambition with Epicurus' remarks about safety from other men
in Κ.D. 7. The latter text is concerned with rejecting the logical
validity of a conscious motive for ambition, rather than tracing it to
an unconscious motivation.

The
extant portions of Epicurus' works and those of other Epicureans are
scanty. Lucretius himself certainly did not wish to appear to be
unorthodox, and cannot be expected to call our attention to any changes
which he may have introduced into Epicurean theory. Therefore it is very
difficult to establish whether any particular element of Lucretius'
thought represents an innovation. In the present case, however, there is
material for comparison, and one finds that what is always missing in
these other Epicurean sources is the concept of unconscious motivation.
Thus, the paradox of suicide resulting from the fear of death is quoted
from Epicurus by Seneca (Ep. 24.22); but whereas Seneca's version finds
anguish in a way of life based upon the fear of death, it is only
Lucretius' description that stresses a person's unawareness of the fear
which is still active in his mind.

There is in Epicurus' Letter to Herodotus what
seems to be a very interesting precedent for Lucretius' analysis. In a
discussion of religious anxiety, Epicurus mentions the possibility that
men may suffer from superstitious fears without actually assenting to
them intellectually, "by some irrational impulse" (81.8). Lucretius'
“hidden goad” (3.874) is reminiscent of this irrational impulse.
Conceivably it represents a translation of this phrase or a reference to
it. Yet although Epicurus' impulse does work inconsistently with a
person's belief, there is no clear indication that it is unconscious
(“hidden”).

As
I have mentioned earlier, Konstan has found the idea of an
"unex­plained" fear of death in other Epicurean sources as well as
Lucretius. Moreover, the general anxiety portrayed by Lucretius was
certainly an Epicurean theme, and Lucretius' concept of unconscious
motivation is related intimately with this anxiety. The "irrational
impulse" described by Epicurus hints that Lucretius' supposition of
unconscious motivation may have been a mere extension of Epicurean
theory. Neverthe­less, the evidence available for comparison
consistently suggests that Lucretius was adding a decisive nuance.

Lucretius
does not offer any explanation of a philosophical basis for postulating
unconscious motivation. We might easily assume that he had none. But
even if this nuance was derived exclusively from his personal experience
and poetic intuition—as it surely was to a considerable extent—it would
be interesting and admirable. However, as I have already pointed out,
we cannot expect Lucretius to call our attention to philosophical
innova­tions. Therefore we must consider whether there is any possible
basis for unconscious motivation in his psychology. Here we need not
look for an unconscious region of the mind, but simply for a way in
which emotions can affect thought and behaviour without a person knowing
it.

A
clue is provided in his answer to an objection to the Epicurean
analysis of thought at 4.770-817. Thought was explained on the model of
sensation. The Epicureans maintained that all objects give off a
constant stream of images consisting of the superficial layer of their
atoms. The senses receive such images, while the mind perceives
similar images composed of finer atoms. We must bear in mind that the
Epicureans, as thorough materialists, applied this theory to every kind
of thinking. For example, Lucretius states that even acts of volition
must begin with the mind perceiving an image of the action to be
performed (4.881). The objection raised concerns how it is that we can think of whatever we wish, or even dream of a moving object. Lucretius'
answer is that actually innumerable mental images surround us at any
given moment, passing in succession too rapidly to be perceived
individually; therefore we are aware only of those to which our
attention is directed. Thus we can imagine a moving object by attending
to many separate images in rapid succession, i.e., cinematographically
(4.804—808):

“So
all the other images are lost, except those for which the mind has
prepared itself. And the mind prepares for, and expects to see,
[logically] consecutive images; and so it does.”

Now, the importance of these remarks is not limited to the specific example of cinematographic dreaming. Actually,
Lucretius' answer has revealed another aspect of the theory; for if
sufficient images are always present to explain any thought, then the
problem is not how we can think of what we wish, but how we can exclude
the other images to think specifically of what we wish. Lucretius
proceeds to explain this by selective attention, drawing an analogy with
vision. Just as we do not see objects which are in our field of vision
unless the eye focusses upon them, so the mind is aware only of those
mental images to which it attends (807—815):

“Just
look at the eyes, how they prepare and adjust when they start looking
at something like fine print, and if they do not, we can not see
distinctly. Yet even large objects, if you do not focus on them, seem as
if far away all the time. So why is it any wander if the mind loses
thoughts with which it is not preoccupied?”

Thus,
normally the course of thought is governed by the mind's attention and
its expectations. But Lucretius quickly adds that by the same token,
this selective attention can lead us astray (816 f.):

“Then we jump to very serious conclusions from minor evidence, deceiving and frustrating ourselves.”

This
postscript has occasioned some confusion, since it is not clear how
selective attention can lead to error. Part of the solution is suggested
by “jumping to conclusions” (adopinamur), which is equivalent to
Epicurus' προσδοξαζειν. The point of that concept is that since the
images are true, error must arise because we think beyond what is
supported by the evidence. But why should our concentration lead us to
jump to conclusions?

The
answer lies in understanding exactly what kind of error Lucretius has
in mind. The purport of these verses has been misconstrued because of a
tendency to forget that Lucretius in this context is concerned with
thought in general, and mentions visual attention only as an
illustrative analogy. It is worthwhile to quote in full Robin's
commentary, for his interpretation grasps the meaning rather well—except
that he too has confused the visual and mental terms of the analogy.

Robin's
examples (which I have italicized) concern mental interpretation of
visual data. However, the analogy is between “large objects” and “the
mind.” Lucretius is explaining mental thought by visual analogy, so that
we should expect mental data. Moreover, Lucretius' warning seems to be
excessively grave for such matters as Robin suggests. The theme of
serious delusions based on trivial evidence represents a
characteristically Epicurean assessment, not of the fear
of a physical shadow, but of the "shadows of the mind" which Lucretius
compares with children's fears in the dark (3:87-93). Diogenes too (fr.
38 column 1 Chilton) says that anxieties, as well as physical
afflictions, are much greater than their cause, like fire from a spark.
Therefore, in all likelihood, Lucretius is alluding here precisely to
the kind of delusion with which we are concerned, and his remark may
give an indication of how he thought such people went astray.

What
happens, then, to the attention and expectations of such persons? As we
have seen, they are ignorant of the true meaning of life and death, and
subject to irrational fears and desires. In their case, it is not
logical thinking, but emotion that directs the mind's attention and
dictates its expectations. It is conceivable that Lucretius chose the
word ‘preoccupied’ (deditus 815) deliberately, because this word
fits the concept of emotional obsession as well as concentration. At any
rate, their irrational fears and desires, not their intellect,
determine their thoughts and lead them to jump to dangerous conclusions
oblivious of the facts.

But
how can they fail to understand the very emotions which hold their
attention? Hitherto, I have been referring to their thoughts as
“imaginings”. But in a theory which explains thought as the perception
of mental images, the difference between reasoning and imaginings cannot
be defined by the pictorial character of the latter. For Lucretius, the
crucial difference must have been precisely that the mind's attention
is distracted by excessive emotions. Since selective attention is
exclusive (we miss all other images), but reason and emotion follow
different rules of inference (connecting different images), one cannot
engage in both of these processes simultaneously. Therefore, as the role
of the emotions in selecting the images becomes unduly augmented, clear
thinking is displaced by inarticulate "imaginings." Not only do we jump
to false conclusions, our thinking becomes incoherent. Finally, we must
remember that the anxiety envisioned by Lucretius involves "many cares"
simultaneously—all of the irrational fears and desires which
Epicureanism was intended to dispel. This multiplies the incoherence;
small wonder if we miss the role of our different emotions as well as
the logic of our thoughts.

This
view fits well the vaguely reasoned fears of the ambitious men and the
wandering mind of the traveler, as well as his apparent passivity and
lack of control over the direction of his own thoughts. It provides for
their eclipsed awareness of their own motivations. Finally—and this is a
touchstone for reliable reconstruction of Epicurean theories—it is
attrac­tive atomistically, since the emotional distractions can be seen
as disturb­ances of the orderly movements of the atoms of the mind.

A
succinct example of how the mind is led astray by fear occurs in
Lucretius' discussion of religion. At the same time, this example shows
the role of ignorance, which is the ultimate root of anxiety. Lucretius
writes (5 1204-11)

“For
when we look up at the heavenly vault of the universe and the
motionless sky studded with shining stars, and we think of the pathways
of the sun and moon, then that other anxiety awakens and rears its head
in minds already burdened with other troubles—the notion that maybe some
huge divine power propels those shining stars along their different
paths. For a mind in doubt is tempted by the need for an explanation…

I
cannot dwell upon the difficulties which have been raised about this
passage. (There is an excellent discussion of the passage by David J.
Furley in his essay on "Lucretius the Epicurean" in Lucrèce, Entretiens
Hardt 24, Vandoeuvres-Geneva 1978 19-21; cf. the discussion with
Gerhard Muller, 36-37 and 224-225.) However, the chief problem is how it
can be construed (with “For when” 1204) as explaining the assertion
which precedes it, viz., that true piety is the ability to look at
everything unperturbed (1203). This problem will be resolved when we
have understood the experience which Lucretius is describing.

The context of the passage concerns the origin of religion in the

experiences
of persons ignorant of Epicureanism. Hence, the subject of “we look up”
(1204) seems to be indefinite, although it is first-person. How­ever,
this same experience is described also in 5.82 ff. (= 6.58 ff.), where
it is ascribed to persons who have learned that the gods are free from
care (6.58), but who have not mastered Epicurean natural philosophy and
are still subject to anxiety (cf. 6.67 “so that they are
all the more confused, thinking blindly”)—i.e., probably, aspiring
Epicureans. Like the boasters in the preface of Book 3 and the man
pitying his corpse, they are liable to suffer imaginings inconsistent
with their stated belief (cf. 6.68-69). In other words, this is the same
kind of religious anxiety which Epicurus ascribed to an "irrational
impulse."

It
should be noted that, at least as regards the Epicurean aspirants, the
experience presented here does not represent a fully fledged instance of
unconscious motivation. Lucretius could hardly point to unconscious
motivation in thoughts narrated in the first person. Moreover, the
aspirants are only tempted to espouse superstition by their insecurity;
they do not succumb to the temptation. Nevertheless, this text does show
how fear misleads the mind.

Let
us compare the experience described here with the normal train of
thought, in which the mind “expects to see [logically] consecutive
images; and so it does.” (4.807-808) When ignorant men regard the
awesome spectacle of the heavens, they do not know what to expect to
follow (sc. by way of an explanation). The Epicurean aspirants know that
they should not expect an explanation burdening the gods, but they are
not secure in this knowledge. Moreover, both are distraught with anxiety (1207), so that when ignorance or insecurity arrests
their train of thought, the underlying fear in their memory (where its
presence is implied by “awakens”) may respond to the awesome sight and
turn their minds to superstition. In their subjective experience (the
text is in the first person) the superstitious fear seems simply to rise
up into their consciousness (it "rears its head"); for it is not
selected by their train of thought so much as triggered in their
insecure and troubled hearts by the awesome sight.

I am therefore taking Lucretius' description to imply that if men are

ignorant
of the true causes of heavenly phenomena and subject to anxiety, then
their superstitious fears awaken in direct response to the awesome
vision of the sky. If I am right, we now have a much better
understanding of why Lucretius insists that ignorance begets so deep an
insecurity that we may abandon our convictions; we can also grasp the
confusion and loss of direction inherent in the thought processes of
anxious men; and finally, we know how this passage explains the
assertion that true piety is being able to look at anything in peace.
Perhaps I am taking the striking poetic metaphor “rears its head” rather
literally; but the excellence of poetry in such a context is to
communicate vividly the experience felt. If we bear in mind the
mechanics of Epicurean psychology, that is exactly what this metaphor
does. Since mental images do not arise inside the mind, but enter from
outside, memory is not so much a capacity to call up stored images as
the easing and opening up, by previous use, of pathways in the mind
predisposed for the reception of the corresponding images—as Lucretius
describes for dreams (4.975-977). Therefore, if we are at a loss to
interpret an image which bears emotional associations—just as when the
intellect has vacated the helm of our thoughts in sleep—the image will
flow naturally along those paths. (Lucretius actually does compare the
imaginings of unenlightened men with daydreaming in 3.1047-1048.)

I
have argued that it is the notion of unconscious motivation that
renders Lucretius' psychological insight most peculiarly modern. If my
recon­struction of the philosophical basis for this notion is correct,
we are now in a better position to evaluate the extent to which it can
be compared to psychoanalytic theory. A separate region of the mind
harbouring repressed, deep-seated instincts, like Freud's unconscious
system, is not to be found in Lucretius' philosophical psychology.
However, the combination of un­limited ambient images with a mechanism
of image selection that operates below the conscious level and is
subject to emotional interference does resemble the psychoanalytic
"preconscious," i.e., the memories, emotions, and imaginings lurking on
the edge of consciousness and ready at times to emerge.

Philosophically,
it was the thorough materialism of Epicurean theory that made it
possible for Lucretius to assume unconscious motivation. For while
spiritualist theories can simply postulate an immaterial subject that is
defined as capable of undergoing mental processes as we experience
them, materialists must reduce consciousness to mechanisms of which we
are not aware. These, in turn, can then be used to explain unconscious
motivation. If Lucretius' subjects were aware of their selection and
reception of mental images, they could not have missed the difference
between logic and emotion and lost track of their own motivations.
Similarly, Freud had to postulate mental "regions" and "connections"
which, although presumed to be located in the brain, had not been
isolated physiologically any more than Lucretius' mental images.

Since
Lucretius' irrational motivations were neither permanently barred from
conscious reflection (i.e., he did not have any notion of "repression")
nor innate, unlike Freud's, they could be uprooted. Psychoanalysis views
man more as a rationalizing than as a rational animal. It seeks the
solutions, as well as the causes, of anxiety in the unconscious mind,
and it views even healthy individuals as largely guided by unconscious
motivations. Epicurea­nism, like the other Hellenistic schools, appealed
to reason. Anxiety was blamed on ignorance about the world and how to
live, and the cure was sought through reasoning and understanding.
Lucretius would not ascribe unconscious motivations to perfected
Epicureans.

Nevertheless,
his theory, with his psychological sensitivity, was suf­ficient to
enable him to strike an understanding of the "dark" side of the mind
that was surprising for his time, and may have brought Epicurean
psychology to the threshold of a much more sophisticated stage. With his
power of poetic expression, he attempted to convey that understanding
in descriptions which fascinate us today. Despite these vivid
illustrations, contemporaries such as Cicero apparently could not
comprehend his message; nor do scholars who dismiss such passages as
merely symptoms of his own illness—although it may be profoundly true
that Lucretius understood anxiety better than the placid Epi­curus
precisely because he himself had suffered. Regardless of that
possibil­ity, perhaps from our post-Freudian perspective we can better
appreciate the depth of his psychology.

James Jope

I
am obliged to the Institute of Classical Studies in London and A. A.
Long for providing the stimulating environment in which this study was
begun; to A. P. Booth and B.Verstraete for their supportive interest,
without which it would not have been completed; and to David Furley, W.
Dalrymple, and an anonymous Phoenix referee for useful criticism and
advice.